


Rimjhim

by fruitcakes



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 22:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12419763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitcakes/pseuds/fruitcakes
Summary: It's like a drizzle—subdued with a soft pitter patter, but forever making itself known with every breath, every gust of wind.





	Rimjhim

**Author's Note:**

> This, my friends, is the bad sequel to a bad fic but I found it in my WIPs and decided to go ahead and post it because why not. Enjoy

_It was fine._

Petrichor invades every inch of space when the first drops fall. It's a thunderstorm unlike any before: the flash of lightning and the rumble of clouds is loud. But no louder than the soft, tinkling notes of the music in the room that fill the little bubble they've made for themselves in warm blankets.

It's sometime after 11, and for the first time in months, the apartment truly feels like home. Wonwoo’s on a date, albeit it's a pathetic one and he's acting proxy for Seokmin, who got stuck at work.

But there's pasta Arabitto, and Billy Joel, so Wonwoo can't find it in him to complain. And then a song from from his childhood is playing, bringing with it memories of his uncle and aunt swaying to the melody at a family wedding, looking sickeningly sweet and like everything Wonwoo covets.

Soonyoung’s the one who had the wine but Wonwoo feels the mellow buzz in his veins. “Let's dance,” he says, extending a hand, spinning threads of bravado out of flashes of thunder.

Soonyoung looks up and asks with a short huff of laughter, “why?”

Wonwoo is waiting patiently, with his fingers suspended midair. “Why not?” he says. It's a strange time of a strange night; nothing feels real, everything could be a dream and Wonwoo could get away with it.

And before the first few notes of the song are gone, they're standing close together, hands twined, and trying to find a rhythm. It's easy, when Soonyoung has such a way with his body, and when Wonwoo is so willing to fall into step with him.

“Hey, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo hums in response, too busy revelling in the lyrics.

Soonyoung pulls away, raises his arm and prompts Wonwoo to spin around. Laughter bubbles in their chests. (Soonyoung because of how awkward it is, what with the height difference. Wonwoo because of the pseudo romance and how it makes him feel.)

When the song builds up to something of a crescendo, Wonwoo pushes Soonyoung back and then pulls him in with a well timed tug. So that as the final chords sound, they're snug together and laughing somewhat breathlessly.

With dance, what's one song and what's a few more? So they keep dancing, and laughing, and letting the rain be the music to the moment.

“I heard you took up poetry this semester,” Soonyoung says, as if it's some hot topic.

Wonwoo adjusts his grip on his waist and smiles. “I did. It's fun.”

Soonyoung hums and asks, “what are you reading currently?”

They're moving in slow circles on the hardwood floor, their bare feet making small squeaky noises. “Emily Dickinson,” Wonwoo replies.

“Oh!” Soonyoung exclaims. “I've heard of her. Do you have a favourite poem?”

Beneath his palm, and through fabric, Wonwoo can feel his warm skin brimming with excitement. He nods.

“Longing,” he says.

“And do you have a favourite line from it?”

Wonwoo hums and clears his throat in an exaggerated manner. Soonyoung giggles at the act.

“I envy light that wakes him,  
And bells that boldly ring  
To tell him it is noon abroad, —  
Myself his noon could bring,” he recites.

At the end of that and halfway through the fourth song, Soonyoung's hand goes lax in Wonwoo's and his smile is nowhere to be seen.

And it dawns on Wonwoo, that it has dawned on Soonyoung. He isn't sure what gave him away.

There's nothing to stop either the deluge of the raindrops, or the pity in Soonyoung’s gaze.

_Until._

Because hysteria is impossible without an audience, Wonwoo feels the first dregs of pain only when Soonyoung stops abruptly, goes statue-still. From then on, it's like a drizzle—subdued with a soft pitter patter, but forever making itself known with every breath, every gust of wind. 

It could have gone worse; it could have gone worse but Soonyoung doesn't beat around the bush.

“I don't know what to say,” he whispers. His eyes are downcast and his lashes throw shadows on his cheeks.

_Now._

It isn't a rejection because there was never a proposal. But it stings as much, maybe a little more.

“You don't have to say anything.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this six months ago so I do not remember what song they danced to. 
> 
> >.<


End file.
